


Yet What I Can, I Give Him

by a_big_apple



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Music, Churches & Cathedrals, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:06:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_big_apple/pseuds/a_big_apple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This Christmas is much improved over the last--mostly because Sherlock isn't dead--but it isn't so simple for John to recover from his grief, and he finds comfort in likely and unlikely places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yet What I Can, I Give Him

**Author's Note:**

> _"In the bleak mid-winter / Frosty wind made moan, / Earth stood hard as iron, / Water like a stone;/ Snow had fallen, snow on snow,/ Snow on snow, / In the bleak mid-winter / Long ago._
> 
> _Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him / Nor earth sustain; / Heaven and earth shall flee away / When He comes to reign: / In the bleak mid-winter / A stable-place sufficed / The Lord God Almighty, / Jesus Christ._
> 
> _Enough for Him, whom cherubim / Worship night and day, / A breastful of milk / And a mangerful of hay; / Enough for Him, whom angels / Fall down before, / The ox and ass and camel / Which adore._
> 
> _Angels and archangels / May have gathered there, / Cherubim and seraphim / Thronged the air, / But only His mother / In her maiden bliss, / Worshipped the Beloved / With a kiss._
> 
> _**What can I give Him, / Poor as I am? / If I were a shepherd / I would bring a lamb, / If I were a wise man / I would do my part, / Yet what I can I give Him, / Give my heart."** _
> 
> _-Christina Rossetti_

If John is honest with himself, he enjoys doing the washing up right after a party's over.  It's a bit zen, helps him wind down.  If he leaves the wine and champagne glasses out all night, by morning the dregs will need soaking and scrubbing, and who wants to do that on Christmas morning?  He did that last year, when Sherlock was dead, and he'd drunk himself into such a shameful stupor at Greg's little do that he'd been put to sleep on the Lestrades' sofa, woken from nightmares, and been caught by the once-again-Mrs Lestrade scrubbing dishes at six in the morning.

This year is infinitely better.  At the kitchen table, Sherlock is deeply absorbed in the slide set Molly gave him, an interesting tissue sample from every body she'd autopsied in the year-and-change he was away.  He's raking his fingers through his hair and muttering to himself, probably narrating it all out to John, who will be expected to remember it at some later date.  It's so perfectly Sherlock, the whole tableau, that John has to stop in the middle of washing to grip Sherlock's shoulder and press his cheek to those dark curls, taking a moment just to breathe.  He gets a distracted, affectionate hum in response, and goes back to his task.

It's nearing midnight when the washing up is done, and Sherlock's still happily staring down his microscope, but John is restless.  The flat is cleared of food and dishes, but looks as if it's been tossed--it's comforting, the clutter and mess, the detrius of life with Sherlock Holmes lit by the glow of the fairy lights strung across the mantle and around the windows.  They've a tree this year, just a little one propped in the corner, hung with popcorn and cranberries and a string of delicate human phalanges.  Still, out of the corners of his eyes, John sees the shadows of the year before; Christmas night alone in the dark flat, layers of dust on clutter he couldn't bring himself to touch, the remains of a hangover throbbing in his temples.  Even with Sherlock sitting right there, alive, John can taste grief like copper on the back of his tongue.

He needs a bit of fresh air, is what he needs, a walk to sober him up and settle his nerves, and then to come back in the door to find Sherlock just where he should be.

He pulls on his coat and gloves and scarf, and bumps Sherlock's shoulder with his own in farewell.

"I'll be back," he murmurs, and Sherlock huffs a breath through his nose.  

"I hardly thought you wouldn't."  But he lets go of the fine focus knob long enough to grasp John's hand and squeeze it.  "I'll be awake."

"Okay," John answers around the sudden lump in his throat.  Bracing fresh air, that's what he needs.

The street outside is quiet, the sort of quiet London hardly ever sees.  There's something about winter, and Christmas Eve, John thinks, a crisp, anticipatory hush to the air.  When he looks up, he can see just a few stars peeking through the city's light pollution.  It's a pleasant environment for a walk, at the very least, and John lets his feet take him wherever they will.  

There are more people when he crosses Marylebone Street, bundled in heavy coats, some families toting sleepy children.  He pauses to watch them, confused until he catches the muffled sound of voices, a melody that tugs gently at his memory.  He's not a churchgoing man, not really.  His family never was.  But his Nana Watson was devout, and Christmases in her house always included the midnight service.  John hasn't been in some years, but...  Well.  He has a lot to be joyful about.  Humming along under his breath, John joins the stragglers heading down the street to St. Marylebone Parish Church.

The choir is easier to hear inside the warm and crowded church; he finds a spot to stand at the back, hands in pockets, not sure if he intends to stay.  A young woman is wedged in beside him, sandwiched in by her boyfriend--no, husband, they're wearing rings.  She's singing quietly and with rapt attention.  "Angels and archangels may have gathered there, cherubim and seraphim thronged the air, but only His mother in her maiden bliss, worshipped the Beloved with a kiss."

She nudges her husband with her elbow, and he starts to sing too, embarassedly and with his head down; it's sweet and a bit funny, and John still remembers the words, so he joins in for moral support.  

"What can I give Him, poor as I am?  If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb."  The young man glances over at him with something like a grateful look, and John grins.  "If I were a wise man I would do my part, yet what I can I give Him..."

All at once the final rhyme is impossible.  The choir slows, and John's heart pangs in his chest.  It's ludicrous, he thinks, to be comparing Sherlock bloody Holmes to Jesus Christ on Christmas Eve, and yet his voice gives out entirely and he's halfway through the vestibule blinking away a suspicious wetness in his eyes before he really even registers the decision to leave.  The vestibule is empty now, and quiet in the moments before the service begins; a bell begins tolling midnight, and John steps out into the chilly air trying to catch his breath.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when an arm hooks through his.  "Merry Christmas, John," Sherlock murmurs without looking at him.  John fists his hands in his pockets; takes a slow breath in and blows it out as steam.

"Happy Christmas.  How'd you--"

"Obvious."

"Bored of the slides already, are you?"

Sherlock glances over at him then, a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.  "Hardly.  I've set aside a few I though you might find interesting.  Also I fancy some of that expensive tea Mycroft gave you."

John huffs a laugh.  "You came out here in the cold to find me so I could make you a cuppa?"

An affirmative hum is all he gets in reply, and he lets Sherlock turn them toward Baker Street.  The hush of the night envelops them as they walk, his flatmate's arm a spot of warmth in his, and they pause outside their door by unspoken agreement, looking up.  

"Beautiful, isn't it?" John asks, and it echoes in his mind, and he suddenly hopes Sherlock won't deduce how carefully John replayed all the quiet little moments they'd ever shared, over and over to keep him company when Sherlock was dead.

"Yes," Sherlock murmurs in reply, studying him speculatively.  

There goes that hope.

Still, all Sherlock does is smile a little before pulling out his keys shepherding John inside.  "Tea," he demands as they shed their winter wear, and John can only sigh, shake his head, and go through into the kitchen to flick the kettle on.

As he's getting clean mugs down from the shelf, the violin sings out a slow note in the living room, and another, coalescing into the familiar hymn from the church.  John sets the mugs down and goes to the doorway to listen, closing his eyes when Sherlock's swaying form at the window is too wonderful and painful to watch.  

The final note lingers in the quiet, lingers in John's mind, and it's momentarily startling when Sherlock takes both of his hands, stroking the backs of them with his thumbs until the tension in John's shoulders eases.  When he opens his eyes, Sherlock is very close--close enough to see the beginnings of little crow's feet, and the scar on the bridge of his nose where he can see it was broken.  John still hasn't heard that story.  Isn't sure he wants to hear about Sherlock, far away, alone, injured.  He reaches up to touch it with his thumb, and Sherlock goes a bit cross-eyed following the movement.  Then Sherlock sighs, folds his hand around the back of John's neck, and leans down to press their mouths together.

When they break apart, John's face is wet, and he sucks in a shuddering breath.  "There isn't even any mistletoe."

Sherlock grins like a sunrise, and kisses him again.


End file.
